I REACH THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS with my beach bag in hand and hurry through the back room. I take a deep breath before heading into the bakery area, hoping to make my getaway without any more drama. I manage to skirt past both Mom and Busia without a word, flipping open the hinged divider in the counter.
“Sophie!”
I look up to see my best friend bob across the customer area toward me. I open my arms and hug her. “Teegan! I can’t believe you’re here!”
“I know, right?” She smiles at me, but her voice sounds weird. Like she’s nervous. “That’s only because my cousin stood in my room breathing down my neck until I got ready. You remember Fiona, right?” She waves a manicured hand toward a curvy blond chick on the other side of the bakery. Fiona’s wearing a bikini top that’s filled to the brim, along with pink shorts that show off the bottom inch of her perfectly round butt cheeks.
A sharp jolt of disappointment rips through my chest. This is her surprise? That her cousin is coming with us? I can’t believe Teegan brought Fiona along without asking me first. Our plan was to find two perfect guys, not three. Plus, I barely know Fiona. I haven’t seen her in a few years, but I see a slight resemblance to the preppy middle school cheerleader I met at Teegan’s house during a family party once. I didn’t like Fiona much then, when her clothes were G-rated and her fake enthusiasm was somewhat expected. Now I despise her.
I almost question Teegan’s loyalty when two hot guys in shorts and T-shirts start horsing around near the register, distracting me. I wonder if I’m hallucinating because the only cute boys who ever come to our bakery are the kind that are freckle-faced and are in preschool. I reach up, smoothing my hair back into place. Seconds later, Fiona sashays over to one of the guys and asks them for the time. Duh. The pope is on the wall ten feet to her right, his arms outstretched to nine twenty.
I turn toward Teegan, whispering. “Is Fiona coming to the beach with us?”
“Oh my God!” Teegan gasps, placing a hand on her chest. “I completely forgot!”
My heart drops. “Forgot what?”
“About going to the beach! I’m such an idiot!” She leans in close. “Remember I told you about Mike, a friend of Fiona’s boyfriend, Louie?”
“I guess. I don’t know.” I shrug, the details of that phone call somewhat foggy. “Why?”
Her face becomes all bunched up, like she’s swallowed a bug. “Well, he came to the graduation party yesterday, and we talked the whole night. He’s funny and sweet—exactly what I was looking for in a guy.”
My internal panic alarm wails in my ear. “Yeah, so? Get to the point.”
She fidgets with her beaded necklace. “Well, about a half hour ago, he called and woke me up, asking if I wanted to go with him on a double date with Fiona and Louie to Great America today. I completely forgot we had plans, so…so I said yes.” She gazes at me with her brown doe eyes, looking guilty as hell. “I’m so sorry!”
I sputter. “Teegan! How could you forget? We talked about this on Friday!”
Fiona coughs, frowning in our direction.
Teegan gently pulls me farther from her entourage. “I’m really, really sorry, Soph. I talked Louie into coming here to buy breakfast just so you could meet Mike and tell me what you think about him.”
Teegan nibbles on her thumbnail, waiting for my response. A heat wave surrounds my neck and leaches up into my face. Looks like my double-date dream has come true—but for Teegan and her stupid cousin, not with me. I’d like to pick Teegan up and hurl her across the room, Hulk-style.
“Hey, Teegan,” the blond, gorgeous jock calls out. “What do you want to eat?”
“A cherry donut and a skim milk, thanks!” Teegan answers sweetly.
He laughs, pointing at one of the homemade signs in the cooler that my grandmother wrote up. “How do you feel about ‘skin’ milk?” He elbows Fiona’s boyfriend, Louie. He makes a snide remark that I can’t quite hear.
My ears start to ring while everything around me moves in slow motion. This whole situation reminds me of when I was forced to be on stage crew as part of drama class. I stood behind the curtain, waiting for the actors to leave the stage so I could run out and move the scenery around. An observer, not a participant.
“I tell you what,” Teegan says quietly. “We’ll go to the beach tomorrow instead, okay? It’ll be fun. Just the two of us.” She touches my arm, attempting a smile.
I yank it away, grimacing. “No, thanks!”
“Don’t say that, Sophie!” she whines. “I said I was sorry!”
Busia brushes past us and wipes down a table, clucking her tongue.
If those clucks are supposed to insinuate that Dola is responsible for this bit of bad luck, she’s wrong. Teegan accepted this date over thirty minutes ago and…whoa. That was probably right around the time I fought with my mom. I roll my eyes. What am I worried about? Dola is as real as the tooth fairy. This bad luck is Teegan’s fault, not a curse from some ancient Polish spirit of love.
“Have fun today, Teegan. Hope it rains.” Not exactly the most adult response, but my maturity level has temporarily slid back to middle school standards. I bolt for the exit, needing air.
“Sophie, wait!” she yells.
I don’t stop. The bells above the door clang together loudly in protest as I whip open the door and step outside. I sail past Nailz For U, Vacuum Cleaner Repair Shoppe, and Pet World before I allow myself a peek behind me to see if Teegan’s coming after me.
She’s not.
Guess she really doesn’t give a shit about me. My fury liquefies, spilling from my eyes. I’m almost out of sidewalk as I near the end of our strip mall when I spy a bench under a tree by the new International Gourmet. I’ll wait there until the traitor leaves the bakery. I can’t believe Teegan didn’t invite me to go with them to Great America. Lots of people go to amusement parks without dates. I would have bought my own ticket. At least then my first day of summer vacation wouldn’t have been ruined.
I kick a stone, sending it skittering across the sidewalk. Who am I kidding? It would’ve sucked to go with them. They’d all be together on the rides, their arms wrapped around each other, while I sat alone, the word loser forming in the beads of sweat on my forehead.
Enough of this crybaby stuff. I have other friends. I don’t need Teegan to have a good time. After drying my eyes on my beach towel, I wriggle my phone from my back pocket. I’ll just see what Waldo, Beans, and Olivia are up to. I send the standard “What’s up?” text and check the time. Nearly nine thirty. What am I thinking? Waldo and Beans won’t be up until noon at the earliest, and Overachiever Olivia is working full-time this summer at the park district. I won’t get a return text any time soon. I sigh. This sucks.
Teegan and the Jerks finally come out of the bakery a few minutes later, carrying drinks and white paper bags. I know watching them will only make me sadder, but I can’t look away. Mike strolls alongside Teegan, chatting her up, but Teegan is distracted, scanning the parking lot as if looking for me. I lean into the shade so she can’t see me. Obviously, I was an idiot for thinking our double-date pact was sincere. The four of them hop into a black Jeep—Fiona and Louie in front, Teegan and Mike in back—on their way to my dream date. I flip them off to make myself feel better, when two young boys on bikes come riding by.
I drop my hand as the boys stop to gawk at all the workers doing final preparations for International Gourmet. There’s a window washer with his squeegee and bucket, a landscaper digging a huge hole off to the side of the building, and a UPS guy with a dolly loaded down with boxes heading toward the side entrance. That’s when I realize how much this place has changed since undergoing construction. The new building is set back twenty feet from the curb and now has a luscious green lawn and a fountain in front of it, while the rest of us in this crappy mall have only a cracked cement sidewalk with a few sprouts of weeds to welcome our customers.
Mom’s right. Why did they spend a fortune to fix this place up? The people in this neighborhood don’t have money to waste on international cooking lessons. Heck, my mom keeps our prices low by using a seventy-two-year-old Polish woman named Stella to clean up in front of our store. When another delivery truck pulls up, I wonder why I’m still sitting here watching people work. I’ll borrow Mom’s car and take a ride to Starbucks. Treat myself to a special, first-day-of-summer drink. I head toward home, stepping over a hose that’s lying across the sidewalk.
A male voice directly behind me shouts, “Watch out! Stop!”
I let out a squeak of fright and freeze mid-step. A landscaping guy materializes next to me, whisking away a huge spiky tool that’s an inch from my foot. He smiles at me, causing a jolt of OHMYGOD! to surge through my veins. Not only is he around my age, he’s gorgeous. He’s wearing a Russo Landscapers T-shirt, jeans speckled with mud, and those camel-colored work boots. His clothes might say landscaper, but he’s so muscular, he could be on an episode of Bodily Harm.
He stares at me with dark-chocolate eyes. “Sorry for yelling. I didn’t want you to step on this hoe.”
My happy bubble bursts in my head. I’ve seen a hoe before—a square piece of metal on the end of a handle. This rounded thing is definitely not it. “Did you just call me a ho?”
He tilts his head in confusion. “What? No! This really is a hoe—a half-moon hoe. Check it out.” He shows me the hemisphere-shaped metal piece at the end.
My face heats up. “Oh, whoops. Guess I only know regular hoes. Not that I know any. Hos, I mean. Regular or otherwise.” I grimace at my rambling stupidity. “Let me start over. What I meant to say was, ‘Thank you for saving me.’”
“You’re welcome.” He grins. “Besides, I would never call anyone a name like that.” He nods before walking away. “Have a good day, pretty girl.”
Hold the phone. Did he just call me pretty? I must have heard wrong. The last guy who called me pretty was Murphy, and he’s old. Gardening God must have said shitty, or gritty, or I’m a girl who needs pity—what the hell did he just say?
He props the hoe up against the side of the closest tree and heads back toward me, which is when I figure out I haven’t moved in over ten seconds. Good Lord, I’m pathetic! I try to cover for my immobility by scratching erratically at an imaginary mosquito bite behind my knee.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, a genuine look of concern on his face.
I resume standing straight. “Me? Yeah, fine. I was just…” Just what? Faking that I have a mosquito bite to spend more time standing here? Enjoying the view, which is you? “Checking out all of the action around here.” Wow. My life is as exciting as the dusty fake zinnias we have on every table in our bakery. Watching others work is what every teenager dreams about doing on her first day of summer vacation.
A loud two-finger whistle pierces the air. I turn and see a middle-aged man standing by the building, wearing an identical blue landscaping T-shirt. “Get busy on those roses!”
Roses? I swallow hard, picturing the blob of red melted wax from Busia’s ritual. Could this be the guy Dola has in mind for me? She said there’d be a rose involved.
No. Stop it. Dola is fake. This is all a coincidence.
“I am, no worries!” Gardening God waves to his boss. He looks at me and shakes his head. “He’s just jealous that I’ve got an audience.”
I’m his audience? He must think I’m pathetic if I have nothing better to do than to hang out and stare at him. Which I don’t, but I’m not about to let him know that. “Ha, ha, funny. But unfortunately, I’ve gotta go,” I lie, sliding my beach bag onto my shoulder.
“Wait! Don’t you want to see the roses first? Everyone loves roses, don’t they?” He tilts his head and waits for my answer—like he really wants me to see his flowers.
My heart zings! “Sure. I love roses. I guess I can stick around for a few minutes.”
He grins broadly. “Cool! I’ll be right back.” He jogs the twenty feet to the truck and runs up the ramp, giving me time to gulp for air. A guy this sweet, with a smile this genuine, must belong to some other girl. Probably multiple girls, even, in powers of ten. I know I’ll only have a minute to make a good impression, but for the life of me, I can’t think of anything interesting to say. Give me a gorgeous guy, and my conversation skills wither quicker than a plucked dandelion. I plan my script:
Me (rubbing chin thoughtfully, staring at the flowers): Your roses are amazing! What type of compost do you use?
Gardening God (shrugging): Cow manure works best, I guess.
Me: Wow, really? Thanks for the tip! (Runs away. Trips and falls over half-moon hoe. Screen goes black.)
Is it any wonder I don’t have a boyfriend when my small talk’s as scintillating as topsoil?
Gardening God comes down the ramp, now carting a wheelbarrow loaded with plants. There are rosebushes in at least three shades of pink, along with several creamy-colored ones. That’s when I realize I’ve been standing there the whole time watching him—no, leering at him.
I quickly kneel down to tie my shoe. Excellent diversion, I think, until I realize I’m wearing flats. Idiot! I make a show of brushing imaginary dirt off the front of my shoes before leaping back up. Unfortunately, my timing’s abysmal, and my shoulder slams into the handle of the wheelbarrow, setting it off balance. Two rosebushes teeter unsteadily for several seconds before flopping to the ground.
“Ohmigod! Sorry!” I squeal, covering my mouth in embarrassment.
He sets the wheelbarrow down, his eyebrows creased in worry. “Are you okay?”
If my shoulder could retaliate, it would punch me in the face. But there’s no way I’m admitting I’m in pain. “I’m fine, thanks. Just klutzy.” I hurry to retrieve one of the rosebushes. A main stem, filled with new buds, is bent in half. “Whoops. I can pay for it.” I open my bag to get my wallet, hoping rosebushes don’t cost too much.
He waves off my apology. “No need to. It’s fine. I do stuff like that all the time.”
“Oh, good.” I shove the container toward him, but he’s not expecting it. A thorn from the broken stem jabs him. He winces; I grimace. “Sorry! Again.”
He smiles, plucking a small thorn from his forearm. “You really are accident-prone.”
I know I should be mortified, but I’d swear he sounds amused, so I’m going with it. “Yep, I’m unusually talented in that arena. I hold the Olympic record—three golds and a silver.”
“Impressive!” He laughs, pulling out a pair of shears. He snips off the broken stem with two beautiful roses on it and hands it to me. “For you.”
“Thanks!” I take the roses from him, wondering what Busia will think when I tell her a cute boy gave this to me. Maybe Dola knows what she’s doing after all.
“No problem.” He grabs the wheelbarrow handles. “I’m going to try this again. Watch your feet, okay?”
I step backward, off the sidewalk and onto the lawn, as he walks toward the flowerbed.
Shoot! Now what? I’ve already admired his flowers, so I can’t just go chasing after him. I need to leave now, keeping my dignity intact. “Well…nice meeting you!” My heart plays leapfrog with my ribs, praying he doesn’t simply yell a polite good-bye back.
He spins around. “Not so fast. I think the least you can do after knocking over my flowers is to help me decide where to plant them.”
I rein in my joy. “You sure? I can’t guarantee I won’t ruin more.”
“I’ll take my chances. Come on!” He blesses me with his heart-stopping smile, which is going to lead to verbal ineptitude on my part if he doesn’t cut it out.
I follow him like a thirsty bee. “Okay, but it’s your reputation that’s on the line.”
He waits for me to walk next to him, and we head toward a huge pile of dirt. “My reputation can only be improved by having a cute girl standing nearby.”
Holding the roses near my cheek, I flutter my eyelashes rapidly. “Aw, shucks. Aren’t you sweet?” I recovered once, but if he keeps this charming charade up much longer, I might have to throw myself at him. They’re not called flowerbeds for nothing.
“Do you live around here?” He gingerly selects two pink rosebushes from the wheelbarrow.
“Yeah, over there.” I point. “At the bakery.”
“Really?” He looks at me, shaking a bush out of its pot. “You’re a Dumbrowski?”
“Uh-huh.” I wait for the inevitable dig, but none comes. “Dumb name, huh?”
“Not as dumb as mine.” He’s got this teasing look in his eyes, so I’m not sure if he’s pulling my chain or if he actually has a dumb last name. He kneels and tries out different flower arrangements. “How about a row of dark pink roses in back with the white ones in front?”
“Looks good to me.” Like you, I want to add, but don’t. Seriously, he could plant them upside down, and I would still think we’re in the Garden of Eden. I read the logo on his T-shirt. “So the last name ‘Russo’ is a problem for you?”
He looks surprised that I knew his name, until I point to his shirt. “Oh, no. I work for my Uncle Tony. Russo is his last name. But if you promise not to laugh, I’ll tell you mine.”
“Okay, I promise. Cross my heart.” I make an X across my heart, horrified when my finger runs into a glop of peach filling. I flick it on the ground, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
He says his last name, but I was too busy attempting to ditch the food blob on my shirt to listen carefully. “Wait. Did you say Manocchio? As in, ‘rhymes with Pinocchio’?”
He throws his hands up in mock disgust, tiny clods of dirt flying. “Hey! You promised not to make fun of me. And I didn’t even tell you the worst part!” Although he’s pretending to be angry, he has a twinkle in his eyes and a hint of a grin.
“What’s the worst part?” I ask, completely enchanted.
He shakes his head despairingly. “Like Pinocchio, my nose grows when I lie.”
“It does?” I respond without thinking. My trademark it seems.
He lets out a hearty laugh. “Yeah, and my ears wiggle when I’m happy. Watch this.” He freezes and pulls his hair away from the tops of his ears. I see his ears move ever so slightly.
Before I can comment, his uncle appears next to us with a small pine tree in his arms. “How’s it going, Giovanni?” he says, his slight Italian accent a lot like my family’s—noticeable but easily understood.
So, the gardening god’s name is Giovanni. How completely poetic is that? I’d still be enamored with him even if his name was Otto Von Gloopensmoopen, but I never thought it’s be as sexy-sounding as Giovanni Manocchio.
His uncle wipes his chin on his shoulder. “I know it’s nice to chat with this pretty girl, but I need you to get to work, capiche? Ask for her phone number, and let’s go.”
555-438-1878, I shout in my head. Please, please ask me.
“I’m working on it. It’s not like the old days, zio. Girls don’t give out their numbers like this.” Giovanni snaps his fingers.
Yes, we do. 555-438-1878.
His uncle turns to me. “Is Giovanni being polite? I promised his papa I’d look after him.”
“Yep. He’s been a complete gentleman,” I respond, feeling both giggly and grown-up.
“Glad to hear it,” he says, before turning to Giovanni. “Two minutes, then back to work.”
As soon as he’s gone, I spit out. “So, your name’s Giovanni Manocchio? That’s so…so…” I search for the right word that would describe how melodic it sounds on my tongue without seeming like a complete poser.
“Italian? Yeah, I know.” He shrugs, looking uncomfortable.
“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘so exotic.’”
“Really? My buddies all call me Gepetto. Not so exotic now, eh?” He chuckles, looking down at his feet. “Anyway, I probably need to get busy before I get fired.”
“I already endured that humiliation today,” I say before realizing I just admitted that I’d been fired. Good Lord, someone shut me up!
“Your parents canned you?” He squinches his eyebrows, staring at me.
I wave it off. “Yeah. Long story.”
“Sounds like a story I’d like to hear. Maybe today at lunch?” One eyebrow cocks upward.
I do mental flip-flops down the sidewalk but play it cool. I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe if you promised to make your nose grow…”
All signs of anxiety leave his face as he laughs. “It’s a deal! I’ll spend all afternoon thinking of great lies to tell you. But now that you know my name, it’s only fair I know yours. Or shall I just call you Miss Dumbrowski?”
He’s gorgeous and clever? I’m in love! “Oh, sure. Make fun of my first name now. Miss is all my mother could come up with.” I poke out my bottom lip and pretend to pout, walking backward a few steps, toward home.
Giovanni laughs heartily and plugs a flower into a hole. “Okay, then, it’s a deal,” he shouts. “See you at twelve, Miss!”
“It’s Sophie!” I yell, completely swept away by this landscaper with a name that sings. As I float on the silver-lined cloud toward home, I realize I would never have met Giovanni if I had gone to the beach.
Cursed, my butt.